Well, hello there. I am not Emma Squalor, but what follows is still very much her chapter, I'm doing nothing except post it here on her behalf.
And Emma, I tried my best to do all the HTML-y stuff, but as I'm sure you know I am NOT awesome at such things XD I hope this is OK. I'd just like to say that this is the best chapter yet, in my personal opinion, and congrats to Emma for writing it
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CHAPTER 10:
*~SURRENDER~*
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The door creaked open and Esmé stepped vigilantly into the tower, mindful of the light at the top of the spiral staircase. She was getting ready to hoist herself up onto the first step, when the door behind her slammed vociferously. She suddenly felt a pair of cold, bony hands close around her collarbone and yank her back.
She screamed.
The hands tightened around her chest, followed by a sinister whisper in her ear: “Greetings, Miss Esmé. We’ve been waiting for you.”
It took Esmé next to nowhere to decode the voice as that belonging to Flacutono. Of all Olaf’s shady associates, Esmé had always found
Flacutono to be the most terrifying of all. He was taller than Olaf by nearly a foot, with an ominous voice that was the center of Esmé’s most horrific nightmares. In the nearly eight years that the two had known each other, Esmé had never gotten this close to Flacutono. Until now, she’d been under the impression that Olaf would never have allowed it.
Leering down at them from the above platform was Count Olaf, whose arm was chained around the chest of Fernald Widdershins. In his other hand Olaf held a hunting knife, which he pressed to the throat of the helpless Fernald. Fernald’s terrified eyes fell across Esmé’s panic-stricken face, and she saw at once that he was injured. His bottom lip was split open, the collar of his tan trench coat caked in blood.
Standing on either side of Olaf were Tocuna and Flo, the two white-faced women and conspicuous twin sisters. Their expressions were neither that of triumph nor displeasure as they studied their associate and his hostage.
“So you truly believed you had me fooled, did you?” Olaf sneered, the light flickering off his eyes as he gazed in contempt at the trembling girl. “You thought you could just run away and that I’d never be the wiser. But I suppose I can’t be
too upset with you— it means you’ve learned a thing or two from me about being deceitful. And for that I am very, very grateful.” He sighed. “But of course there’s
still the matter of your punishment…”
As if to underline that statement, he pressed the blade a fraction further against Fernald’s throat. Even though the spiral staircase was more than ten feet off the ground, Esmé knew the harm it was doing to poor Fernald.
“Stop!” she cried, and felt tears spring to her eyes at the sound of her own desperation. “Stop hurting him!”
“You aren’t the only one who’s caused me a great deal of trouble tonight, Esmé,” Olaf said, pulling back the knife from Fernald’s throat. “I’ve got to find
some way to punish the two of you…”
“Then punish
me! Just don’t hurt Fernald!”
“Esmé,” Fernald said, his voice strained considerably. “Don’t be a fool. Can’t you see that’s exactly what he—”
Olaf’s acidic, vehement voice cut him off. “
Enough, Widdershins!” With that, Olaf kicked the already helpless man in back of the legs. Fernald groaned and slumped even further to the ground, so that all Esmé could see were his petrified eyes.
“
Fernald!” she screamed out passionately.
A bone-chilling roar cut through the still, cool air, and Esmé watched in horror as Olaf threw Fernald to the floor like a ragdoll. She couldn’t see where or how Fernald had landed, though the sound of the blade hitting the stone comforted her somewhat. It meant that Olaf had no intention (at least for the time being) of hurting Fernald. But the rapid beat of Esmé’s heart showed no sign of slowing down.
Throughout the entire process, the white-faced women had remained entirely motionless. Their white faces and Victorian gowns reminded Esmé of two waxen statues.
Esmé stood, completely frozen against the bony chest of Flacutono as she watched Olaf walk to the edge of the platform. The Count folded his arms across his chest and leered down at Esmé, his thin lips curling over his jagged yellow teeth. It was the expression he had used on her many times in the past: it was the one that stated very clearly that he’d won even when the game was far from over.
“Come here to me, sweetheart.”
Flacutono’s arms unraveled from around Esmé, and she stumbled toward the staircase. Though she was grateful to be free of the long-nosed man’s embrace, a new fear awaited her as she ascended the steps.
Even before she’d reached the final step, the Count yanked her by the wrist and hauled her up onto the platform. The next thing she knew she was laying on the ground, her face less than an inch from Fernald’s. His eyes were closed, and in a strangled whisper she uttered his name.
“
Fernald.”
Esmé wanted more than anything to reach out and brush his cheek with her hand, but was too terrified of the consequences to risk it.
“Fernald,” Esmé said again, her throat going dry as she anticipated the possibilities. “Fernald, dear,
please: open your eyes.”
A low growl, followed by a light fluttering of his eyelids. Esmé’s heart raced as her lover’s brown eyes sparked open, and she watched a look of confusion sweep across his face.
“Are you alright?” she asked softly.
“It looks worse than it is,” Fernald whispered. “Trust me.”
“Who did this to you? Was it Olaf?”
The silence that followed was the only answer Esmé needed. Stretching out her arm, she pressed the tips of her fingers carefully to Fernald’s cheek.
“How did you know where to find me?” he asked.
Esmé shrugged. “You were late, and I was worried. Then when I looked out the window, I saw the car and knew that Olaf must’ve discovered what we were up to. I went outside, and that’s when I noticed the light coming from the tower.”
“You’re too noble, Esmé.” As Fernald blinked his eyes, Esmé could just make out the tears in them. “You should’ve run away and saved yourself.”
She shook her head sadly. “Silly Fernald… haven’t you realized by now that I could never, ever leave you?”
Fernald hadn’t even begun to answer when Olaf’s voice echoed like a volcanic blast from behind them.
“Esmé! Come here to me—
now.”
Esmé took one look at Fernald’s frightened face.
“Go,” he encouraged in a raspy tone. “Before he hurts you, too.”
Esmé obliged, but not before mouthing the words “I love you” to Fernald one last time.
The instant Esmé was within proximity of the Count, he wound his arm around her waist and pressed her body against his.
“You’re going to regret this,” Olaf said. “
Both of you.”
Esmé’s eyes darted to Fernald, whose own had since closed. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was breathing, then she would have sworn he was dead.
“Girls,” Olaf continued, addressing the two white-faced women. “Will you bring me my instruments, please?”
His arm was coiled too tightly around Esmé for her to see where the twins went. All she heard was the sound of something heavy being set down on a table. Her heart began to race, and she let out a high whimper of terror just as Fernald’s voice cut through the still air.
“
What are you doing?!”
Esmé managed to turn her head just enough to see Fernald slowly but surely forcing himself into a sitting position.
“If you harm even one hair on her head,” he started, “then I’ll—”
“Trouble, boss?”
Esmé’s eyes flew to the staircase to see Flacutono standing at the top, his face twisted into a horrifying expression of malevolence.
“Get Widdershins out of here,” Olaf ordered. “I can see by his attitude that his presence will only elongate the process.”
“As you wish,” Flacutono said, and Esmé listened to the clickety-click of his footsteps as he crossed the platform to Fernald’s side.
Although he had been badly wounded, Fernald put up a struggle when Flacutono attempted to take him into custody. Fernald took several swings at Flacutono, only to miss each time. In the end, Fernald was taken out by a punch to the jaw by the other man. Esmé screamed, and watched through blurred eyes as Fernald collapsed face-first on the hard, cold concrete.
“Fernald,” Esmé whispered, and then in a louder voice: “
Fernald!”
Seeing him fight against Flacutono had encouraged Esmé to fight against Olaf, but she was no match for her former guardian. He caught her by the hair on the first swing, pulling hard until she screamed in pain. She was forced to watch Flacutono throw the unconscious body of Fernald Widdershins over his shoulder and carry him down the stairs. Esmé’s fear only grew when Tocuna and Flo shuffled obediently after their fellow henchman.
“Where are they taking him?” Esmé whispered as the door at the bottom of the stairs closed.
“To meet his fate,” Olaf replied imperturbably. “And now, my dear, the time has come for me to introduce you to yours.” Esmé felt another harsh tug on her hair, followed by a light chuckle from Olaf. “If I pull hard enough, I might break that pretty little neck of yours. So you had
best not do anything else to irritate me.”
Esmé closed her eyes and gathered together what strength she could in the midst of her terrifying ordeal. When she opened them again, she felt absolutely no different than she had just five seconds earlier. “What are you going to do?”
“Turn around and I’ll show you.”
Esmé complied, though not without the force of Olaf’s hand around her hair to guide her. When she finished circling, she found herself staring at a small wooden table and matching chair. Lying on the table were a pair of hedge clippers and a long piece of rope. The next thing she knew, Olaf had seized her by both hands and was lacing the rope around her wrists.
“You’ve disobeyed me, Esmé,” he said casually. He knotted the rope together around her wrists and then tied the loose ends to the chair’s left arm. “I’ve always told you that you’ll never be anything without me. Why must you
insist on proving me right?”
Esmé swallowed back her tears, though she was unable to do the same for the fear that was about to explode inside her. “I’m sorry, Olaf.”
“Too little too late, sweetheart.”
Esmé heard a sound, like a pair of massive scissors being separated. At last, the tears loosened from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
This was it.
This was her fate.
Esmé felt cold metal pressing against the back of her neck, and the pressure on her scalp as the hedge clippers sliced through her hair in one quick motion. She felt pieces of hair slide down her back, but it was difficult to tell how much had been cut off.
Until she looked down.
Scattered all over the floor at her feet were huge clumps of what was once her pride and joy: her long and lustrous ebony locks. However, knowing that it was all gone did not exactly register to her. All she could think of was Fernald, and what sort of punishment he was enduring at the hands of Olaf’s henchpersons.
The Count lowered his face to Esmé’s shoulder and then whispered in her ear: “Never again will anyone try to steal you away from me… not without your radiant hair and tempting curves. From this moment on, darling, you will keep your hair cut short and eat only what I give you. Is that clear?”
Esmé closed her eyes before answering. “Yes.”
“You can’t abandon me, Esmé. I won’t allow it. You belong to me and only me. I would rather see you dead than in the arms of another man— especially Fernald Widdershins.”
Esmé said nothing, and instead listened to Olaf make his way down the stairs. She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the door close, followed by the sound of the lock being turned from the other side.
When her eyes flashed open, all she saw was darkness. With her wrists still bound to the chair, she sunk to her knees and began to weep. For herself, as well as for her beloved Fernald.
For the first time in more than twenty years, Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger found herself utterly and helplessly alone.
***
Esmé had spent a restless night drifting in and out of consciousness. By the next morning, she was as stiff as a board in every part of her body. Because she’d slept with her forehead pressed against the back of the chair, just glancing over her shoulder caused her unbearable pain.
As her eyes began to adjust to the morning light, so did her memories of the night before. Her first memory was, naturally, of Fernald. Dear, sweet Fernald, who had been in no condition to defend either one of them against Olaf and Flacutono. Esmé knew that she would never have been able to stand a chance against either of the two, but it irritated her regardless.
Esmé’s stomach growled just as she heard the sound of the door creaking open from downstairs. Her heart leaped into her throat as her eyes fell upon the figure of Count Olaf, and she sat perfectly still as he mounted the stairs.
When he reached the top, he took a moment to survey Esmé before breaking the silence. “I take it you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I have,” Esmé agreed.
“And I assume you’ve realized that there is no sense in running, because you know in your heart that I will find you.”
“Yes.”
“When Fernald Widdershins returns, you will have nothing more to do with him— is that understood?”
Though it pained Esmé to agree to such a demand, she knew in her heart that it was the only way to keep herself and Fernald from harm. She clenched her fists together and cursed her own weakness before answering the Count’s question. “
Yes.”
He grinned, satisfied, and crossed over to the young woman’s side. She watched him produce from his pocket a knife— the same knife he had held to the throat of Fernald Widdershins. Realizing what Olaf’s intentions were, Esmé pulled her wrists back from the chair’s arm so that the rope stretched. Laying the blade against the rope, the Count quickly and silently cut through it until it snapped apart.
Esmé spent a few moments flexing her wrists in an attempt to get some of the feeling back into them. When she looked up, she saw that Olaf was offering her his hand. She accepted it, and he pulled her to her feet. Extending his other arm, he laid his rough, cold palm against her warm cheek, causing her to shudder inwardly in response.
Taking Esmé’s face in his cold, rough hands, Olaf leaned forward and slammed his lips against hers.
***
A month passed, and still Esmé had received no word on Fernald Widdershins’ condition or whereabouts. The troupe continued to come by the house every Saturday for rehearsals, and Esmé was still expected to serve them dinner. She attempted several times to linger in their presence, hoping that one of them might mention
something about Fernald. But no one did, and all she received were numerous glares of warning from Olaf when he felt she’d been loitering for too long.
Esmé had gone down another eight pounds since that night in the tower, which was something she wasn’t happy about. With her hair as short as it was, it wouldn’t be long until her appearance became that of a young boy. She was starving all the time, but she didn’t dare eat because of the punishment she would receive if she did. Occasionally someone in the troupe would show up with take-out food, and Olaf would force Esmé to watch them eat it just to spite her. At one time, the two white-faced women had taken pity on Esmé and attempted to sneak her a box of fried rice. But Olaf had— as he always did —discovered his girlfriend’s deception and made her sorry. The following evening when she served him and the troupe dinner, she modeled a newly acquired black eye. The only food she was permitted were an apple or other piece of fruit in the morning, and then a measly dinner at night.
Esmé was just sliding the roast beef she had made for Olaf and his troupe out of the oven, when she heard the doorbell rang. Olaf was in his room rehearsing his newest play,
The Most Handsome Man in the World, and had assigned Esmé the job of answering the door. After checking to see that the oven was turned off, she sprinted out of the kitchen and through the living room to the front door.
Expecting Flacutono (who was always the first to arrive), Esmé opened the door and received the shock of her life.
It wasn’t so much that it was
Fernald Widdershins standing there on the front porch, but moreover what he was sporting. Where there had once been hands— hands that had held Esmé’s whenever she was frightened, and dried her tears each time she cried —were now a pair of sharp, ominous hooks.
Esmé’s eyes widened in horror and disbelief, and she lifted both hands to her mouth. It was an effort for her to meet Fernald’s eyes, and as she did she saw that the emotion on his face was stronger than ever. The bruise around her left eye was only just beginning to fade, and she wondered if he could see it in the dimly lit hallway.
“You’ve cut your hair,” were the first words out of Fernald’s mouth.
Esmé knew his observation was intended to divert her attention from his hooks. But when he raised one and brushed the soft edge through what was left of her hair, she flinched away from him. It was the first time she had ever reacted this way toward him before, and his hurt expression was evident.
“I’m sorry,” Esmé said, and whispered as a way to conceal the sobs that were starting to build in her throat. “But I can’t—” She turned away, shutting her eyes as a way to bear what she said next. “I can’t
love you anymore, Fernald.”
A sharp, stabbing pain tore through her chest as she uttered the words she had never wanted to say. It didn’t matter if they were words that would save the lives of two unrequited lovers: the pain was there, spreading like a cancer and making her weak in the knees.
Esmé leaned against the banister for support, desperate for Fernald to say something. She didn’t care what it was, just as long as he kept talking. The silence was making her pain all the more intolerable, to the point where she was ready to scream if he didn’t say something within the next few seconds.
“I was anticipating this,” Fernald said at last. Esmé was amazed by the steadiness in his voice, and took into account that she was about to be blinded by tears. “After all that’s happened, how can I expect you to choose between me and Olaf? You were right all along, Esmé— it
is better this way.”
Esmé slid her arm in between a pair of bars in the banister, lacing her fingers around them. Finally, the tears ruptured through her eyes, and she pressed her freehand to her mouth to lock away the cry that threatened to escape. She couldn’t afford to have Fernald wrap his arms around her, to comfort her the way he always did when presented with the opportunity.
“I loved you,” he said, and Esmé prayed silently that it would all be over soon, “more than any woman I’ve ever been with.” There was a pause, and she pictured him losing control of his emotions like she was. He had always been the stronger of the two, and it stung her further to know exactly how well they complimented one another. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever stop— how can I when I’ve carried these feelings with me for almost five years?”
Esmé didn’t answer.
“Perhaps I ought to leave.” This time, Fernald’s voice wavered a little at the end. “If Olaf asks, tell him I’ll be at the next V.F.D. gathering… not that my absence here will disappoint him.”
There was no way Esmé could answer without her anguished sobs interrupting. She merely nodded her head, leaning it against the banister after only a few moments when the effort made her dizzy.
“You would have been the most beautiful bride in all of England,” Fernald said. “Farewell, Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger. I’ll always cherish what we had together.”
She wound her fingers tighter around the banister and listened to him descend the porch steps. His footsteps grew fainter and fainter, while her heart got heavier and heavier.
It took Esmé at least five minutes to conjure up the strength to turn around. She half expected to see Fernald standing before her, ready to give their plan one last, desperate shot.
When she finally did look, all that remained was a cluster of leaves being swirled across the porch by the cold November wind.
Finally, Esmé’s knees failed her and she collapsed on them in front of the door. Her tears had only just begun to slow, but now they were rolling down her cheeks in huge droplets. Burying her face in her hands, she pressed her knuckles to her knees and mourned the loss of her beloved.
Olaf was right.
There was no escape.
Only surrender.